The Fiftieth
by Libros Lectori
Summary: The Doctor visits England right before the 50th anniversary, and we learn a little about the origin of the television show. One shot.


A/N:

Hello! This is my first fanfiction to be published! I have been watching Doctor Who for my entire life, and today during class I was wondering how I could recognize that, especially since I will be unable to watch the Fiftieth on the 23rd, because I don't get BBC America so I have to wait until it comes out in theater on Monday. So I thought, 'I've read a lot of fanfiction about England knowing the Doctor, and the other countries know him because of the television show. How does that work?' So, this is my explanation. I hope you enjoy it and review!

"So," I say. "Here we are again." I pick up my teacup from the coffee table and swirl the contents. The room is empty from my perspective; nothing but the telly, a picture on the wall, a large bay window with white curtains drawn shut, a lamp, and a potted plant. Leaning over, I pick up the remote and flick the on button. "Well?"

The man standing behind me finally decides to leap over the back of the couch, and flops down with a thud. "Today's a big day for you, isn't it?" I roll my eyes. Poor couch, I am going to have to get a new one if he kept this up much longer.

"Fifty years, today. My 'idea' has been quite a hit." He shifts a bit, his tweed jacket rumpling underneath him. He leans so that his head is against my shoulder and his feet dangling over the side of the arm rest. I whack him with the hand that isn't pinned down and tell him not to wear his shoes in my house. It's bad enough that that bloody brat and frog insist on tramping through my house with muddy shoes every time they are here.

"Not much of 'your' idea any more, is it? Ever since the reboot, these guys have given you less and less say in it, don't they?"

I frown. I have done my best to stay on top of the production, but I am no playwright, and my world's stage is on a very different level than a modern version of the Globe Theatre. I suppose politics and acting go hand in hand, but I would rather spend my free time drinking tea and reading than writing harebrained plots for something that can no longer be associated with me personally.

"They don't even seem to be using the original plotline any more. I thought the idea was to document my life, not send me on madcap adventures?" The man looks up into my face. Although his words sound as though he has been spurned, his eyes glint with amusement.

"That _was_ the intention. At least, it was my intention. However, I lost control after the producers at BBC began to think that the whole thing was their idea and they could do whatever they wanted with you. Now, I have no clue what they're going to do to you today, except that your current incarnation is going to kick the bucket."

"Good. I don't like the way this Matt Smith character portrays me. I'm much more mature and sophisticated than that." He sticks out his lower lip and I laugh.

"Oh come now, I still have input on the casting, you know. I always try to influence the decision in order to have them cast you as accurately as possible, and he looks and acts just like you. You can't deny it, you even went to that auction in 2011 and bought his coat!" I pull at said garment. "I also still give them ideas and names, remember the one with the Vashda Nerada? That was pretty accurate." He winces. The episode "Silence in the Library" was based on his adventure with a shadow-like creature, and although the television show wasn't completely accurate, it had gotten enough of the personal details close enough to make my companion cry when I showed it to him. Even the name of the monster was correct, due to a conversation with Mr. Moffat, where I had slipped in the name and most of the details.

Although I am no longer a valued member of the show's staff, I am still allowed to help with picking the cast and discuss ideas with the script writers. My project is out of my hands, and while they are mutilating the original intent, they have made the show very successful with the younger audiences. This works well for me, because while I still care about documenting my friend's history, I am also too busy to give it proper attention any more. As long as Moffat doesn't mutilate the idea too much, I am perfectly willing to let him work his evil genius into the show.

A commercial starts on the telly, reminding me that we are only a few minutes away from the start of the new episode. A large timer at the bottom of the screen ticks down. Four minutes and forty-eight seconds, forty-seven, forty six…

"When are you now?" I say, picking up a large, hand bound volume from under the table. The spine creaks as I allow it to open just enough for me to look at. He tries to peek at the contents, but I snap it closed before he can glean more than a word or two.

"Damn you and your book."

"How is Miss River?"

"Fine. She killed me, and then we got married."

"What about Amelia?" His face flashes from dreamy to misery, and I quickly move on. "Clara?"

"Bickering with the TARDIS, as usual."

"What about the Silence?"

"I haven't seen them for ages, not since America." Again, his smile slides off his face. I glance at the clock on the screen. Three minutes and fifty-one seconds left. We sit and watch it count down for almost a minute. He is not ready to see what happens in this episode yet. Although I need to get him out of here quickly, I think he needs a minute to remember his friends. I remember how clingy he was to them, especially Amelia. I think that I will see her again someday, because not only was she not surprised to see me, but because my friend sometimes sends letters to the script writers directly if the story he wants to tell hasn't happened to me yet, and I have seen The Beast Below. Sometimes, I think that he has more influence on my 'project' than I do, conceited bugger.

"I suppose you had best be going now. This episode is farther along than you, at the moment." There are his puppy dog eyes. "Go on, back to saving the universe for you, back to my teatime for me." I take a sip of my Earl Gray. "Come on, up." I swat his head. Groaning, he flips around so that his feet are on the floor and does up his shoes slowly.

Two minutes and eleven seconds left.

He gets up, stretches, and adjusts his bow tie. Examining the room, he goes over to the window and peers out into the gray sky. "No aliens tonight. Maybe at Christmas?"

I sigh. "Do you know how many times I've heard that joke?"

"Maybe I should-"

"Do that and I swear on Russell T. Davies I'll shoot your fez." I laugh at his expression until I catch sight of the timer. Only a minute and twenty seconds left. "Now, off to your blue box, people to save, places to see. Everything and anything is waiting, just outside of here and now. Run, old friend, and keep on running. The entirety of time and space await." I say as I shove him out into the hall where an old fashioned police box is waiting. "You do know that design wouldn't fool anyone. Not only was that design only in use for a decade or so, the proportions are all wrong now."

"That would be the chameleon circuit. It's still malfunctioning, but the shape morphs a little over time." I can feel the excitement building, and I shove him towards the box. He opens the door and walks in.

"Oh! Doctor?"

"Yes England?"

"Happy birthday." We both laugh, and the door closes in front of me. I watch as the TARDIS blinks out of existence, the sound of the universe filling my ears and heart. As the last of the noise fades, I hear the theme song start and every nerve in my body jumps as my nation prepare for a cultural phenomenon fifty years in the making. I make my way back to the couch before the theme song can end. I sit down and examine the fish fingers, custard, jammy dodgers and jelly babies. The theme song is ending, the episode is beginning.

"Happy birthday, Doctor. Oh yes, happy birthday indeed."

A/N

I hope you enjoy the Day of the Doctor! My friends and I are hoping to celebrate the Day of the Daleks next month, because we can't get together for the Fiftieth. If anyone bothers to review, I have an extremely important question for you; who are better, Daleks or Cybermen?

Also- I am very sorry that I made England threaten to shoot the fez, and will regret it for the rest of my existence. In my defense, can you imagine what Davies and Moffat would do if they discovered that they were actually writing a liberal documentary rather than a science fiction show? Not only would the Doctor have to run from hoards of screaming fans every time he tried to save the universe, either the script writers would be miffed that they were being fed the plot or the biggest screaming fans of them all.

Thank you for reading!

~Libros Lectori


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